


It's Okay to Cry

by AlyKat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Momma Coulson was there to comfort her son and one time it was passed to someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Okay to Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Still not mine. Still just playing in Marvel's toybox. I promise, I'll put things back when I'm done. 
> 
> Warning: Use Caution. Author was not in a happy place while writing this...so I took it out on Phil. =/ Sorry Phil.

 

I. Wheaton, IL. July 21st, 1969.

Age: 5

The house was dark and quiet, save for the rain that pelted against the window panes softly. The only light in the hall came from the street lamp shining in through the window next to his bedroom door. Bottom lip sucked in between his teeth, and dressed in his little cotton shorts and undershirt, the little boy with mused up brown hair and frightened grey eyes crept silently down the hall to his parent’s room.

He slipped into the room, careful not to wake his daddy, and slipped up next to his mother’s side of the bed. He stood there, staring, for long, silent minutes; sniffling occasionally as he buried his nose in the top of his plush dog’s head. Still worrying at his bottom lip, he finally reached a small, pudgy hand out to touch his mother’s.

“M-Momma?” His voice was barely even loud enough for him to hear, so it was a bit surprising when the young woman opened her own grey eyes and blinked through the darkness at him.

“PJ? Baby? Honey, what’s the matter?”

“I had a bad dweam. W-Wed Skull was ch-chasing me an-and twying to hurt me an’ C-Cap’ain ‘Mewica couldn’t help an’ I was w-weally scared an’—“

The bed next to his mother shifted, a grumbling voice filled the air of the room.

“I told you those damn comics weren’t a good idea. Boy doesn’t have a wild enough imagination on his own, now he’s got nightmares on top of it…”

“There’s nothing wrong with him having my old Captain America comics, Henry. Go back to sleep.” Quietly, Momma pushed herself out of the bed and moved to scoop her little boy up into her arms. Instantly he wrapped his arms around her, his nose shoved in the crook of her neck as she carried him back down the hall to his room.

Setting her son back down in his bed, she smoothed his hair down, kissed his forehead and moved to plug his nightlight back in. The nightlight his father had hidden from him when he turned five just a couple of weeks before, because if he was old enough to read on his own, then he should be old enough to no longer require a nightlight. As the pale yellow light illuminated his room, Momma smiled and sat back down on his bed.

“It’s alright, Baby. It was just a bad dream and bad dreams can’t hurt you, remember?” Her voice was quiet and sweet like the gentle melody of a beautiful music box. She reached her hand out, stroking down the tear stained chubby cheeks of her son, the absolute light of her life.

PJ clutched his plush puppy closer to his chest and nodded, head pressing into the gentle caress like a touch starved kitten. Momma smiled her soft smile.

“And Captain America never lets the bad guys win. He would always be there to help and protect you, especially from Red Skull.” She leaned in, pressing her lips to his forehead gently. “And even if he’s not, I am. I’ll never let anything hurt you, Baby.”

Her touch was feather soft and caring as it brushed over his hair, cheeks and neck. Finally, the hand settled on his chest, under the plush pup, and was the warm, familiar pressure that told him everything was going to be alright. That he was safe and nothing was going to get him.

A quiet song filled his room, one that had his eyes drifting shut, and lulling him back into a peaceful slumber; a shy little smile on his face and his nose pressed to the top of his plush pup’s head.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

II. Lincoln Park, IL. October 31st, 1974.

Age: 10

_I’m not gonna cry. I’m not gonna cry. Can’t cry._ Tears stung at his eyes, but still he refused to let them fall. He was ten years old; it was time to stop being such a baby about things. Besides, it was only a stupid Halloween costume, anyway. His dad had been right. He was too old for Halloween and costumes and stupid, childish things.

He slunk in through the kitchen door, hoping his mother was down in her basement studio and praying to God in Heaven above that his dad wasn’t around to see him. Mud and blood mixed on the side of his face, his left eye already starting to swell with a nasty cut directly under it. His nose was bent at a slightly funny angle and Lord did his side hurt from where he’d been kicked.

Honestly, it didn’t bother him that he’d been beaten up. It wasn’t the first time it’d happened since moving the summer before, it wasn’t going to be the last. No, he was upset because his costume had gotten ruined. The costume his mother worked so hard on to sew and piece together so he could spend Halloween dressed as his hero, Captain America.

It’d been a beautiful costume, too. Everything about it was perfect and carefully detailed. He’d loved it the moment he’d set eyes on it and had thrown his arms around Momma’s neck in a joyful thank you. His dad had rolled his eyes at the costume; muttering under his breath that it was time for the boy to grow up and stop acting like a child. Momma had done her best to help him ignore the man though. “ _Don’t listen to him, Baby. You’ve still got plenty of time to be a little boy. I want you to have fun this Halloween. You were invited to that party and I just know you’re going to have a good time.”_

The sniffle he gave sent pain searing through his skull and caused the room to sway dramatically. Right. A good time. A movement in the living room caught his attention and he stiffened, briefly, as he heard a shuffling of paper and pencils being sat down on the coffee table.

“Baby? Honey is that you? I thought you went—“ The movement and words stopped as he lifted his head and blinked blurrily at the archway to the living room. He hated the look on his mother’s face. The surprise, the horror, the sadness and disappointment. His aching shoulders slumped and his head hung low to hide his face.

“PJ, what happened?!” In an instant he was pulled into her arms, held close despite the mud and blood still fresh on his clothes and face. He held in his tears, the urge to crawl into her lap and just bawl like a baby. It wouldn’t do him any good, and in fact it would just make things hurt all the more. But at the same time, he couldn’t find the strength to push her away either.

Momma frowned when he didn’t answer and pulled back to gently brush away some of the mud on his face. She didn’t even look down at the torn seams and holes in his knees. The tears prickled at the back of his eyes again and he blinked past the pain to keep them back.

“I…I trip—“

“No. Don’t lie to me, Babe. What happened? Who did this?”

His bottom lip trembled as his shoulders shook with the force it took to keep his tears back. He soon found himself back in her arms, his head on her shoulder and gentle hands smoothing down the back of his head gently.

“It’s okay to cry, Baby. It’s just us. Your Dad’s gone ‘til Thursday. It’s okay. You can cry...”

And just like that, that quiet, gentle permission to let go opened the flood gates and released the dammed up tears he’d been holding in for three blocks. They sat on the kitchen floor, his head against his momma’s shoulder, her arms wrapped securely around him while he cried himself out. Between his sobs and hiccups, he told her of the older boys that had been picking on him at the party. He didn’t know who they were, but figured they went to his school since they knew who he was. They’d shouldered him out of the party and followed him down the block. When he’d tried to be brave and stand up for himself like Captain America would, they’d ganged up on him and beaten up on him.

Momma held her young son close, her face buried in his soft, dark brown hair while her hand rubbed soothing circles into his back. She shushed and hummed quietly, trying her best to comfort him without adding to his already long list of aches and pains. She’d have to take him to the ER to make sure nothing was broken (aside from his nose…which even she knew was definitely broken). It could wait a little while longer though. He wasn’t ready to let go and she wasn’t going to make him.

 ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

III. Lincoln Park, IL. March 24th, 1982

Age: 17

The front door slammed against the wall hard, but he didn’t care. Fuck it! His back pack bounced on his back and he flew up the stairs two at a time, jaw clenched tight and fists balled at his side. He didn’t even care that his dad was yelling at him from the bottom of the stairs. He could just go straight to hell and fuck the devil himself for all PJ cared.

His bedroom door rattled on its hinges when he threw it shut, his book bag swung out and whipped hard against his closet door. With an angry shout, he dropped onto his bed, face shoved into his pillow as his entire body shook. So that’s what heartbreak felt like? A year of dating one person and it was over in the blink of an eye. God he felt like his entire world was falling in around him. He couldn’t breathe through his choked up gasps.

“PJ?” The voice from his doorway only made his gasps for air all the harder. He ignored his bed dipping but he couldn’t ignore the hand rubbing up and down his back. It was the same comforting touch he’d known his entire life. It was meant to soothe him, but really it just made him feel worse. At least right then.

He shifted himself away and rolled to curl up on his side, back to his mother. Couldn’t the floor open up and just swallow him whole already? Or maybe he could just go downstairs and willingly subject himself to another lecture from his dad about how he just needed to man up and stop being such a woman about things. How many times had he heard his name should have been Phyllis Jane? Maybe his dad was right about that, too.

“Sweetheart…Shelly was here just before you got home. Baby, I’m so sorry.”

“I…d-don’t wanna talk about it.”

Momma was quiet for a long moment. She just sat at the edge of his bed, picking at his bedspread. PJ snuffled loudly as he finally rolled onto his other side and just curled up all the more. His sad, grey eyes shone with tears as he looked up at the woman. There was paint splatter on her jeans and shirt, and multiple colors staining the tips of her fingers. The light brown tendrils that had fallen free from her ponytail wisped down around her gentle, smiling face.  He’d always thought she was beautiful (for, ya know, being his mom and all), and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how or why she’d stayed with his father for as long as she had. She was warmth, and kindness; smiles and understanding; a woman who still brought him chicken soup when he was sick and would come in to check on him before going to bed. Her life and laughter and love were all the things PJ longed to one day have for himself and he hated his father for being so cold and calloused and taking her for granted.

He gave a shuttered breath as she brushed his thin bangs off to the side and left her hand on his trembling shoulder. The words never had to be spoken, she knew he was hurting and knew exactly how to take care of things to at least make him feel a little bit better. Gently, she reached to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

“It’s okay, Baby. You’re gonna be okay. It hurts now, but it’s going to be alright. You’re still young, sweetie, and someday you’re going to find someone who’s going to love you for who you are. They are going to love you so much and take such good care of you.” Her voice was calm and gentle, with just a small smiling lit to it.

His eyes darted away. There was a nagging voice in the back of his head telling him that it was never going to happen. There was nothing special enough about him to make anyone want to be with him forever. He was too skinny, not tall enough, played soccer but still wasn’t athletic enough. He was doomed to be that gawky, awkward guy who sat in the corner of the lunchroom alone, his lunch packed into a metal Captain America lunchbox still and surrounded by comic books.

“It’s going to be alright, sweetheart. I didn’t really like Shelly anyways. She _really_ wasn’t your type.”

He blinked twice, eyebrows knitted together before a gust of laughter burst from his mouth. No, Shelly _really wasn’t_ his type. _At all_ , but it still hurt. And would for a long time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

IV. Union Station, Chicago, IL. November 28th, 1985.

Age: 21

“PJ, stop. Come home, please? Your father—“

“He _kicked me out, Mother!_ ”

“Baby, no, he—“

PJ spun on his heels in the middle of the train station. His duffle bag dropped to his feet as his drab uniform jacket bunched around his middle. His eyes flashed with anger as he stared back at his mother. How could she stand there and try to defend that man?! The man who had tossed his own flesh and blood out the door, simply because his boy finally got the courage to confess to his parents that he was gay.

“He told me he wasn’t going to have a quee—“ His mouth quickly clamped shut. He couldn’t say that in public, not while dressed in uniform like he was. He’d be kicked out of the army faster than he was his parent’s home. Jaw clenched tight, he looked away from the woman and instead let his eyes scan the crowds. Happy families traveling home from their Thanksgiving celebrations bustled about, and couples kissed goodbye on the platform. Things PJ knew nothing about but always longed for.

“He…it was just a surprise, honey. Your father loves you. _I_ love you. You’re my baby…”

“I’m twenty-one and a Ranger, Momma. I’m not a baby anymore.”

Humor flashed across the woman’s face as she quirked an eyebrow at him.

“And yet you still call me ‘Momma’. That gives me full rights to still call you ‘Baby’. You are gonna be 80 years old one day and you’ll still be my Baby.”

PJ rolled his eyes and picked his duffle up off the marble floor. His train was going to be leaving soon and he still needed to get something to eat for on the ride. He just wanted t get as far away from home as possible.

A hand caught his wrist as he moved to sling his bag over his shoulder. Bright eyes looked up at him through dark lashes. There was sadness hiding there, a pain so deep and raw that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep himself from getting choked up. Momma pulled him in for a hug; ignoring the fact her little boy was now a good four inches taller than her.

Fingers found their way up into his short, cropped hair on the back of his head, holding him gently to her. He huffed softly as his shoulders fell. What was it about a mother’s touch that could make just about anything better? Or at least not feel quite so terrible, anyways. His nose buried into the soft wool of her sweater and he thought back on all the times she’d held him so close when he was a child. The lonely little boy who had such a hard time making friends and would turn to his mother for support and comfort.

“Be safe, Baby. That’s all I’m asking. Be safe and be _happy_. You deserve to be happy.” Her words were barely more than a whisper as she pressed her lips to the side of his head. Pulling back slowly, her hands rested on his cheeks to keep him from getting away. “I love you, Phillip. You’re my baby boy and you always will be. Nothing is ever going to change that. Not even if you bring home a nice boy for me to meet. Just…be careful.”

It was the 80s; there’d been a lot of quiet talk going around about AIDS and gay men. It was enough to make even PJ a little weary of being with someone (which, he wanted to point out, that he hadn’t actually slept with anyone yet. A few stolen kisses and some over the clothes groping, but nothing beyond that).  

He gave a silent nod, lips pressed together in a tight line. Momma stared at him for a long moment before she tilted his head down to kiss his forehead gently.

“I am so proud of you, Baby.”

“Thanks, Momma…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

V. S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical, location undisclosed. June 1st, 2012.

Age: 47

It was the first time he’d woken up and felt semi-human and alive. The machine’s blipped around him, signaling that he’d once again woken up. He’d been in and out of consciousness for a month and had no real memory of any of it. Except for a constant presence by his bedside. A warm hand pressed to his and a gentle kiss to his forehead. Those he remembered. He thought he might remember having heard a gentle voice speaking to him, coaxing him out from the darkness and pulling him back into the light.

As he blinked his eyes open and looked around, his sight landed on a figure sitting next to his bed. A sketchbook and pencil were in the woman’s lap, colorful wood shavings filled a small sharpener on the bedside table. Her hair had long since turned a soft silver color, but still strands slipped from her ponytail to frame around her gentle face. There were far more lines than he remembered there ever being and a small pair of glasses sat perched precariously on the edge of her nose. Her eyes were closed and there was a faint smile gracing her lips.

“Pretty sure she’s been here since the second they moved you to a secure location, Sir.” The familiar male voice from the other side of the room startled him. Grey eyes wide with surprise, Phil turned his head to look to the figure perched in his window. The light from outside glowed around him and for a moment Phil swore his mind was playing tricks on him by making him think the figure was that of an angel.

“Barton…?” He croaked out quietly, his voice strained from lack of use. With slow, fluid movements, Barton pushed himself off the window and moved to press an ice chip to his mouth. The cool liquid felt like heaven to his parched throat.

“She’s a pretty amazing lady, Boss. You’re really lucky to have a mom who cares so much about you.” There was a sadness thinly hidden in the archer’s voice as his blue-green eyes glanced across to the woman still sleeping peacefully in the chair, her weathered hand resting atop Phil’s gently.

“H-how…l-long…”

“A month. Don’t worry. You’ll get the full debrief once you’re back on your feet.”

Phil stared up at Barton and tried to open his mouth to say something, anything, but the man before him looked tired and worn down. Like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and was being beaten down by self-guilt and whispers from behind his back. The sniper shook his head as he set the cup back down on the table and took a step back. His jaw set and eyes haunted.

“It’s good to have you back, Sir.” He said as he turned and quiet as a ghost, slipped out the door.

The silence that hung in the room was deafening. Even the sounds of the machines faded into the background as Phil stared out the door; trying to decide if he’d just imagined Clint being there or if the man really had been.

“That’s a nice boy, Baby. How come you’ve never brought him home for me to meet?”

His eyes finally blinked as he turned his head to look at his mother. She still looked tired, but her smile brightened her face just the way he always remembered it to.

“Hi, Momma…”

“Shh…don’t talk, Baby. Just rest.” The hand that had been on his came up to smooth over his forehead and brush his untrimmed bangs off to the side as she smiled sweetly down at him. He nodded faintly, head leaning into the touch like a touch starved kitten. God how he’d missed having someone to take care of him and comfort him when he needed it.

“Clint’s been in here almost every single day to check on you, you know.” There was a tone in her voice that had him opening his eyes slowly to look back at her. “He’s brought me coffee and dinner, even some more paper when I ran out. He seems like a very nice man, PJ. Someone who cares a great deal about you.”

“…Barton’s…my subor—“

“Shh…I told you not to talk.” A finger pressed to his lips to shush him as she tilted her head just slightly to the side. “You’re my baby, and I love you sweetheart…but I think it’s time you let someone else start being here to comfort you. It’s obvious to me that Clint cares about you more than as just superior/subordinate. He’s given you so many distant looks, like he’s trying to find the words to apologize or the strength to tell you how he felt…and they’re the same looks I just saw you give him before he left. Let him in, PJ. Let him in and let him be the one to take care of you.”

Phil opened his mouth to respond, to tell her it’s complicated and he definitely couldn’t risk ruining the friendship he’d developed with Clint. Her raised eyebrows and stern look quieted him and brought a sigh from him instead. Eyes falling shut, he gave a small nod. He was going to need someone to take care of him once he got released from medical, and as much as he loved his mother, he knew he couldn’t ask her to uproot her life back in Chicago to come help him with his recovery.

Now if he could just get the courage to say something to Clint…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

+1. Lincoln Park, IL. Not so distant future.

Age: 52

The service had been nice, simple, something his mother would have laughed and rolled her eyes about. There weren’t any flowers to deal with (in lieu of flowers, he’d asked that donations be made to the Chicago Art Institute where she had worked for the majority of her life), which she would have been pleased with. She was never a big fan of flowers, the pollen bothered her nose and caused a tickle in her throat she just couldn’t get rid of.

Not many people had been present. Some remaining, scattered family members, co-workers from the Art Institute, neighbors, Phil and Clint, and that had been it. Through it all, Phil kept his emotions back behind his well practiced façade; not allowing himself to cry even though he knew she’d be telling him it was okay to. He just couldn’t. It’d been too many years since he last cried, and he wasn’t about to now. Even if next to him, Clint kept giving small sniffles and would take quick, frustrated swipes at his eyes.

Momma loved Clint. From the very first moment she’d met him, sitting by her son’s bedside, the archer staring at Phil with such a pained expression and calloused hands holding Phil’s so gently. She’d known then that Clint was someone special, the person who would take care of her son for her when she wouldn’t be able to. She treated him like a second son and had been so beside herself with happiness when Phil finally told her that he and Clint were going to get married.

She’d danced with both of them at the reception, and there was a picture hanging on her living room wall of her laughing between Phil and Clint as both men pressed kisses to her cheeks. It had been the happiest day of their lives.

So it was hard to believe that just three short months later, they’d be shuffling through her empty home, sorting things for ‘keep’, ‘charity’, ‘auction’. All of her clothes had already been washed, folded, boxed and taken to the local Goodwill store. Dishes and silverware was divided between ‘keep’ and ‘auction’ while any piece of furniture without a purple Post-It taped to it was set off for ‘auction’. They’d found a box of Phil’s old toys and games in the attic and debated for a long time on what to do with them. Ultimately, the entire box went on the auction block (save for a plush pup that had definitely seen better days. That Clint stuffed in his duffle bag lovingly to take home with them once everything was settled there). Anything that had belonged to his father, Phil didn’t even think about, he just threw into the auction pile without even a second glance. All of his mom’s movies though? Those they set out on the living room floor to sort through while eating lunch.

“Man, Momma sure liked her animated movies, huh? Look at this…Disney’s ‘Robin Hood’! I haven’t seen this in, fuck, _years!_ And the original ‘Land Before Times’…’All Dogs Go to Heaven’…’An American Tale’ and ‘Fievel Goes West’…and every single variation of ‘Winnie-the-Pooh’ imaginable.”

Phil looked up from his sandwich and smiled fondly at the DVDs Clint was spreading out on the floor in front of them.

“She loved animation and cartoons. Said there was a timeless quality to a good animated movie. She used to watch Looney Toons with me every Saturday morning.” His voice caught slightly as he quickly took a bite from his sandwich and looked away. Beside him, Clint shifted to put his head on his husband’s shoulder. They were still technically newlyweds. They should have been home, in bed, blowing each other’s minds…not sorting through Phil’s childhood and the woman’s life to prepare for the estate sale.

“She really loved you, Phil.”

“I know…” He swallowed down his bite and set the rest of it down on the paper wrapper it’d come in. He turned his head, pressing his lips to Clint’s forehead before pushing himself back up to his feet. He took a steadying breath as he started for the basement stairs.

“There’s still quite a few boxes downstairs. I’m gonna…start bringing them up. You finish eating.”

“Phil…”

“It’s okay. Eat.”

He didn’t dare glance back over his shoulder as he took off down the stairs and just went for the first box he laid eyes on. It was heavier than he thought it was going to be and the sudden weight of it caught him off guard. It slipped from his hands and landed with a _THUNK!_ on the floor, the top flaps opening  on impact and letting the contents spill out across the floor.  

Pages upon pages of paper skittered across the ground. Some sheets were stapled together, others bound professionally, and still others just loose and about. Phil’s jaw clenched as he stooped to pick the loose pages up and start shoving them back into the box. He wasn’t going to look at them, hadn’t planned to sit down and start flipping through them, but the colorful comic pages had caught his eye and he couldn’t help himself. So many pages, all showcasing the same little boy, in all stages of life. From early childhood clutching a plush pup to his chest with great, big, grey eyes staring up out of the pages, to a lanky teen tripping over his own feet and limbs all helter-skelter as he went running after a soccer ball, to a man standing in full uniform, shoulders back and hands clenched at his sides as he stared off at a train schedule.

_The Many Adventures of PJ and Patches_ the earliest pages all read at the top.

_The Continued Adventures of Phillip J_ was scrawled along the ones of the teenager going through every awkward phase and heartbreak only a teenager could.

_The Proud Soldier and Other Stories,_ the ‘other stories’ included him joining a ‘secret government organization’, when he finally came clean about what it was he actually did for a living, and a clearly made up version of how he and Clint had met.

He didn’t know how long he’d been down there, staring at the pages, pages of comics he never knew existed but could tell just by looking at them that they’d been drawn, inked, and colored by his mother. His hands shook as he stared down at the final filled sketchbook that had fallen open, showing the starts of an unfinished comic. Frame after frame after frame of him lying in a hospital bed and Clint moving from his bedside, to the window, to his other side, and finally putting his head down next to Phil’s hip to sleep. He had always known his mother loved cartoons and comics, she was, after all, the person who gave him his very first Captain America comics for his fifth birthday…he’d just never realized she’d catalogued his life in her own private comic books.

It wasn’t until the pages were being pulled from his hands that Phil realized he was no longer alone in the basement, his entire life spread out in front of him on display in the forms of his mother’s colorful artwork. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him in against a solid broad chest. He curled up on himself, pressed his face into his husband’s chest and just hung on for dear life.

She was gone. She was really gone and all he had left were memories and comic book pages.

Soft lips pressed to his head in a gentle kiss as those calloused hands rubbed soothing circles into his back.

“Shh…it’s alright, Babe. It’s okay…it’s okay to cry…

And just like that, the flood gates opened and released the dammed up tears he’d been holding in for far too long, safe in the comforting arms of his husband.


End file.
